The Ladybug and the Runaway
by dandylyings
Summary: A story of intimacy, loss, and all the detail between. A/U Brittana in 1930. (How We Love; Twelve Perspectives)


**How we Love; Twelve perspectives**

**A/U Brittana in twelve ways.**

"_Tonight I can write the saddest lines.  
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too._

_Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.  
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky._

_She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.  
How could one not have loved her great still eyes._

_Tonight I can write the saddest lines.  
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her."_

- Pablo Neruda

**Melville  
1930**

"It ain't that I meant to do _that_ on myself," Puck whispers to Trout with his usual smirk, "It's just the bed has a way of bringin' out the best in me."

Trout, Mercy, and you make faces at Puck as you get told to stay quiet in the pew by Misses Jones. You always tell Misses Jones that Puck, Trout, and you don't make good Church folk, but she just wave it away with every swing of her fan. "Noah, Sam, and Brittany need Jesus," Mercy told you Misses Jones always says, and you, knowing that to be truth, don't have it in you to argue with Misses Jones logic.

"Yeah, right, Puckerman," Trout say with the roll of his eye, ignoring Misses Jones' silent warnings as he talks to Puck over your lap, "just believe you me when I tell you that I'll find out why you had wet spots on that bed."

"I'm a grown man - I ain't no bed-wetter, Trout!" Puck all but hisses out, the sound attracting Misses Jones from her bible, her eyes all wide like if she saw the sight of Jesus on water; wide like Puck been committing a sin.

If it's one thing you learned to never do on this God forsaking Earth, it had to be to stop Misses Jones from her weekly praise. Ever since Mister died four summers before, Misses Jones been livin' by that book and God. Trout said you was too young to _really _remember Mister, but you can recall him down to the dirt on his boots, you just never tell Trout that. But Trout say Mister was a good colored man. You used to ask Mercy 'bout him day and night. You learned that he was the youngest of twelve siblings, but you think each of them died before he married Misses Jones. You reckon they was definitely in love for them to get married as young as they did. Trout told you that Mister claimed Misses Jones to be his own by the time he was sixteen by shouting it at the top of his lungs. You guess love do that to you - make you do things that don't always make sense. They had Mercy when they moved back down to Melville in 1914, same year you were born. That's all you ever found out 'bout Mister and Misses Jones. That's all Trout ever told you.

You know that Trout only knew that much from how he follows Mercy 'round endlessly.

"Noah Puckerman , you betta ack like you got sense in dis here church 'fore I make you." Misses Jones say in that calm, threatening manner that always seem to contradict what she says. You know Puck don't believe much in God, but with his Ma always workin', he likes to spend his time in the likes of anyone who ain't Stacy Lee.

Stacy Lee pulled out knife 'bout the size of your arm on him after he went to tellin' somethin' he ain't wasn't 'posed to. If you were him, you'd be goin' to church with a friend, too.

"What 'bout Ladybug, Miss?" Trout asks, his bowed head tipping in your direction. His blonde hair falling like a curtain, shielding his green eyes.

"Samuel James Evans, you too old fuh' dat kinna behavior - you best leave yo' sister out yo' sin." Misses Jones warned, stumping any other back-talk Trout or Puck had for the rest of service as you and Mercy laugh by their sides.

Mercy is colored, like Misses Jones. But she ain't like most people you meet, colored or white alike. Most outside your little town of Melville like to believe that colored people are dumb and deaf, but Mercy gotta be the smartest thing in you've ever known. She's also the nicest. Misses Jones and her been there for you and Trout since ya'll Pa ran-off to Florida when you were nine. Misses Jones used to work in the upperside when you were little, and was lucky enough to run across your father. After your Ma died when you were seven while tryin' to give birth to your late little sister, April Mae, he just 'bout gave ya'll up to Misses Jones faster than he could give his name. Misses Jones then took ya'll into Melville, the only town in the South that is the way they are, and just started raising you like her own; giving ya'll a roof over your heads and clothes on your backs ever since. She just give and give, you notice.

By the time the Holy Ghost left the sanctuary; you, Trout, and Mercy are all waiting for Misses Jones to finish talking with the Pastor as Puck walks to his home on his don't really like this time of the service, when you normally get chastised for not being able to hold still. Mercy always ask you if you're dancing, but you only rarely are. Sometimes you're running from imaginary villains, or jumping over hurdles of trees and branches to get to the hillside where cotton candy is the clouds. But you never tell Mercy that.

When Misses Jones is done with the Pastor, you all started walking home. You guess that's the best part of living where you do - with everything being on the same street and all. You could get some gum, a best friend, and schooling all on the same dirt road.

When ya'll do reach your porch, it's still early in the evening. And being folk that don't do well with sudden changes, ya'll just get out of your Sunday best and into your average day, falling into your regular rolls around the town. Trout usually just runs down the road to Puck's, as Misses Jones and Mercy like to cook the day away. Sometimes you help Misses Jones and Mercy with their fun in the kitchen, but Mercy and her always work too fast for you to keep up; so you usually go on an adventure by yourself of days like these. You like it like that, though. Some days you come home to them singing hymns to your dinner like secrets. You reckon those secrets keep them sane, just them and the Lord knowin' why they really singing for.

"Hey, Trout!" You hear Puck holler from somewhere outside your lawn as soon as you get on the first step of the porch. "I'll race you to Lucy Q's," he screams before trying to run off, tripping over (and almost out of) his own boots. Trout, always up for a challenge, been chasing the idea of winnin' somethin' long before Puck's tempting. So it don't surprise you to see Trout running hard in the direction of Puck's voice.

You also ain't surprised to see that they ain't try to include you in their little race. Trout used to, when you guys first met Puck, when you were ten - Trout twelve. But now, you being fifteen, you know he likes his time alone without you.

You're also kinda used to being left behind by now.

You find yourself almost to the swimminghole, your mind lost from the beauty around you, after walking through the town. When you first came to Melville, around the time you were introduced to Church, you set out lookin' for God. The swimminghole just 'bout took your breath away when you found it, instead. You ain't even shown it to anybody - most days you're too selfish to share something that holy with anyone else. You can still remember the joy in your heart that day when Trout asked you what you were smiling 'bout. All you could whisper was "I found him" over and over until Trout moved his attention on to Mercy.

The swimminghole sits right on the edge of your little town, literally the farthest away from the church. It takes a while to get there, it being so private and all. You love it for that reasons, too. Some days you think you could scream at the top of your lungs and not disturb anybody. You reckon nature does that to people, make solitude that much more bearable. You like to think about your real Ma on these types of walks, sometimes even Trout's, too. Sometimes, when your mind is ready and willing, you imagine them in your little adventures. Insteada Trout's Ma leavin' ya'lls Pa at the altar, you like to think she was like Margaret Livingston from Sunrise, and was done with Pa when she found out he ain't had no wife to drown. And insteada April Mae catchin' pneumonia that winter, her heart was really just beatin' faster for those whose love had done slowed down.

That's why you like the swimminghole. You just ain't worryin' 'bout a thing when you there. It's a place where dust swims in the streams of sunlight as critters chirped little symphonies under wet rocks. A place where silence is conceived with the tirin' of life. An area where it don't take long for you to spot two boys shoutin' and hollering loud enough to be seen, but quiet enough like they weren't trying to be heard.

One of the boys, David, you remember his name being, looked angry as he quickly tightened the belt on his trousers under the trees of Melville. "She _saw_ us," he sibilantly says to the boy in front of him, his own face red. He doesn't see you walking closer to where he's planted, he being too occupied with the words slithering through his locked jaw, as his fist continue to clench. "That Nigger girl sawus and we can't even _find _her to explain what was happening!" You notice he holds debris of his clothes in one of his hands, and some of what you assume to be the boy's, as well. "She could damn well be on the other side of Melville by now!" He pushes a shirt into the other boy's chest, _hard_, with his clenched first before he goes to put his own on.

"Davey," the other boy whines after buttoning his shirt, stepping in front of David before he walked away any further; his left hand lifting towards David's right arm, his palms open, "_Please, _don't take this out on me. I didn't see not one _black_ girl earlier." The other boy sighed his corrections before continuing, "And I can't keep _this_," he gestured between the two of them, "up if you continue to be this way." The other boy's hands traced David's body like he was made of silk. You continue to watch the two boys, stepping closer and closer. You could've sworn David was red out of anger, but his color evens out to a pink as soon as the boy's hand runs over his body like water; making his fist unclench, and a tie drop from his fingers. You always heard whispered stories from Trout 'bout David: how he looks a little too much, or smiles a little too wide, or touches a little too long. Trout always say that it don't bother him none, but he does like to emphasize that David _likes_ him. You always argue with him knowing that ain't nothin' but lies in the air. It ain't that Trout ain't a good looker or nothin', but his feet _stink_ and he never likes to keep on a shirt for nothin' in the world - ain't no way David would want a fella like him. And you make sure to tell that to Trout every chance you get. You think David would want a boy like the one holdin' him now; patient and durable.

Puck says that David never admitted to liking any boy, and always seem to have a girl on his arm. You once asked Misses Jones if people could love both 'bout a year back. Her eyes went wide, and her words were heavy and slow and tired from just bein', then she said, "God don't make no mistakes, Ladybug; it's in His nate'cha to love, chile. Love can't be wrong wen it's good fuh you." From what you're lookin' at now, you guess love does that to you; make you do things that aren't always truth. You take in how calm they look under the Melville sun until David finally spots you behind a tree - simultaneously pushing the other boy back, creating space between them, and becoming angry again.

"Brittany," David says both curtly and shocked, your first name seeping from his lips as he steps closer to you and you to him, "what are you doing out here?" You think about your answer as your eyes trace over his features – his brows purposely hangin' low, his hands now clenched, his hair outta place like he's been rollin 'round in mole hills. You start to think that it'd be best if you just ain't say nothin', so you reply in silence; your shoulders lifting just to drop in a confident shrug. David, however, could've took offense from an Oak. "Now, look here, Brittany, I don't know what you're over there thinkin', but whatever it is – it ain't what it look like." David says real fast and real hard and real scared. You just stand where you are instead of talkin', trying to be patient and durable. The boy behind him seems to understand your answer, as he steps up behind David, palms open. The other boy touches David's hand, slow and steady, before allowing his own to drop. You decide right there that minute that you like this boy, too. He's full of gestures and communication. He just said to David what you don't have to anymore: that you ain't there to judge them. David looks down at his hand stiffly, before saying your name again. "There could be all sorts of dangers learkin' out here. Maybe it'd be best if you leave." You feel all sorts of sadness comin' from that boy from where you're standin' - it starting in the back of your neck and panging right into your chest.

It's the kind of sadness that makes you not want to love anybody; makes you hate who you are; makes you scared of tomorrow; the kind of sadness that's unhealthy. You think it'd be best if you stayed, so you tell him just that before making your way around him. You almost get a yard away before you hear your name again. You hold still for a moment, waiting to see if he had something to say that was worth you turnin' around.

He didn't.

You turn around anyway.

You ain't expect to see him crying. You ain't expecting him to be so full of emotions. "It's only dangerous when it's a secret," you hear yourself say before you turn around again; making your way to your own little piece of Holy land.

* * *

A/N: The biggest, most appreciative thank you to Gnomingabout, Chaoticspaces, and Themostrandomfandom for their help with the on-going development of this story. Each individual really helped this work become the best it can (well, the best with which my current writing level will allow). Thank you for those who read this and are nice enough to review.


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